And he counted the horses and men bearing away the golden dividend of the emperor, knowing if what they had in keeping were safely lodged in the royal depositaries, there was nothing which might not be condoned,—not usurpation, defeat even. Most literally, they bore his fortune.
A moment after there came upon him a procession of motley composition: disabled Christians; servants, mostly females, carrying the trifles they most affected,—here a bundle of wearing apparel, there a cage with a bird; prisoners, amongst others the prince Cacama, heart-broken by his misfortunes; women of importance and rank, comfortably housed in curtained palanquins. So went Marina, her slaves side by side with those of Nenetzin, in whose mind the fears, sorrows, and emotions of the thousands setting out in the march had no place, for Alvarado had wrapped her in his cloak, and lifted her into the carriage, and left a kiss on her lips, with a promise of oversight and protection.
As if to make good the promise, almost on the heels of her slaves rode the deft cavalier, blithe of spirit, because of the happy chance which made the place of the lover that of duty also. Behind him, well apportioned of Christians and Tlascalans and much the largest of the divisions, moved the rear-guard, of which he and Leon were chiefs. His bay mare, Bradamante, however, seemed not to share his gayety, but tossed her head, and champed the bit, and frequently shied as if scared.
“Have done, my pretty girl!” he said to her. “Frightened, art thou? ’Tis only the wind, ugly enough, I trow, but nothing worse. Or art thou jealous? Verguenza! To-morrow she shall find thee in the green pasture, and kiss thee as I will her.”
“Ola, captain!” said Cortes, approaching him. “To whom speakest thou?”
“To my mistress, Bradamante, Señor,” he replied, checking the rein impatiently. “Sometimes she hath airs prettier, as thou knowest, than the prettinesses of a woman; but now,—So ho, girl!—now she—Have done, I say!—now she hath a devil. And where she got it I know not, unless from the knave Botello.”[52]
“What of him? Where is he?” asked Cortes, with sudden interest.
“Back with Leon, talking, as is his wont, about certain subtleties, nameless by good Christians, but which he nevertheless calleth prophecies.”
“What saith the man now?”
“Out of the mass of his follies, I remember three: that thou, Señor, from extreme misfortune, shalt at last attain great honor; that to-night hundreds of us will be lost,—which last I can forgive in him, if only his third prediction come true.”